He really does just seem to be jogging. I’ve followed a man to watch him jog. And all he’s doing is sweating and glowing quite profusely. Now he’s stopped to stretch near some rocks and I look away to be polite because, well, he’s bent over and his bum is quite arched in those little running shorts. He stretches to the side and his thighs are, for want of a better word, bulging. There are some defined curves to his back under his small backpack; his biceps curl upwards as he rolls his arms over his head.OK, I need to stop now. This is bordering on pervy. Maybe I’ll just go back to the villa and enjoy the surroundings but suddenly a bird calls in the distance and Ben turns to look in my direction. I bend down behind a nearby fir tree.Shit. Did he see me?
‘Chloe! Is that you?’ he shouts, his voice carrying up to where I am.
I have options here.Could I pretend to be a bird of some description? Maybe I’ll caw. What noise do birds make? Do I pretend to be a goat? I don’t even know what noise a goat makes. It’s like a sheep, yes?I bleat. Poorly. Like I’m on Old McDonald’s farm.
I hear laughter. ‘I can see your shoes,’ he says.
I shuffle them back in.Do I pretend to be funny or crazy?‘It’s not Chloe. I’m just a lowly little mountain goat.’
‘Do you have a name, little mountain goat?’ he calls up.
Shit. What’s a goat name?I guess we go for alliteration, something beginning with g? ‘Gloria?’ I say, unsure why I question my own goat name.
Ben pauses and I hear his footsteps treading up to the path I’m standing on, twigs cracking.
Shit.I don’t know what my cover story is here. ‘Hi,’ I say cheerily as his face appears around the tree trunk.
‘Hey,’ he says, looking me up and down. ‘You’re out for a jog too?’
He thinks I jog?I’m in yoga gear. I was going to stretch by the pool but that’s a decent excuse and I lunge a little. ‘Yeah, I thought I’d get out before the sun got high.’
‘Were you just trying to avoid me by pretending to be a goat?’ he asks.
‘Oh crikey. No. There was a goat here, she’s scarpered. You must have scared her off,’ I explain.
‘Sure,’ he says, smiling. He turns his baseball cap backwards and rolls his shoulders back. I mimic the action, assuming that’s what runners do. He studies me curiously. I must look quite pink. ‘Well, while you’re up here can I show you something?’ he asks.
I stop in my tracks. I’ve already seen everything thanks to his tiny shorts. But now that we’re alone, is he going to reveal himself to me in other ways? I knew something was awry. My instincts are never wrong.This is not good.
I step back and he puts his hands to the air. ‘I was going to show you the view.’
‘Of?’ I ask abruptly. I pick up a rock from a nearby ledge and put it behind my back. I can’t run but I’ve got a mean arm.
‘The sea?’ he replies, narrowing his eyes at me. ‘Just the sea.’
Oh. ‘Of course. I could look at the sea,’ I say.
‘Cool, come on then.’ He cocks his head to one side, urging me to follow him.
We push past the tree and I place my hand on it, feeling the silvery smoothness of the bark. We scramble up a sandy track, tripping on tree roots, my trainers covered in dust, when we suddenly come up against a shield of greenery. Ben pushes it to one side and I sigh sharply when the view is revealed: the azure sky, the horizon meeting the crystal-blue sea which is dotted with little boats and framed by white cliffs. As I try to take it in, I feel bizarrely free for a moment. I’m not usually in charge of how I feel, I’m usually in a badly lit office, waiting in line for themicrowave. An invisible office lemming doing the same damn thing every day.But now I’m here. I take a deep breath, smiling and closing my eyes. I notice the warming, earthy scent of salt; the sound of the waves crashing below; the sun on my face. This is what a holiday feels like. I open my eyes again and notice Ben looking at me. Embarrassed to be observed in my closed-eyes-meditative moment, I pretend there’s sweat in my eyes and blink furiously.
‘You didn’t bring any water? Sun cream?’ he asks, reaching round to take off his backpack and handing me a cold bottle of juice. I don’t want to look like I came out here unprepared, so I try to act aloof when I actually want to chug that bottle like a hungry baby.
‘I wasn’t thinking,’ I tell him, holding the bottle aloft to signal my thanks. ‘You’re big on hydration, eh?’
‘In this heat, yes,’ Ben replies. I watch his throat ripple as he downs his own drink.
Jesus, this juice. It’s sweet but tangy and fires off every part of my tongue, running down my throat like fruity silk. ‘What the fuck is in this?’ I ask. That sounded mean-spirited, accusatory.
‘Blood orange,’ he says, obviously still trying to work me out. ‘I squeezed it this morning.’
‘Good squeezing.’Wow, did I actually just say that?That might be worse than my goat impression but it’s true. It’s good juice.
Ben smiles to himself like he didn’t quite hear me and walks towards the edge of the cliff to take in the view again.
‘It’s quite a view, eh?’ he says, putting his empty bottle back in his bag. He turns back and takes my bottle too.
‘I like all this Mediterranean pine, I noticed the olive trees as well. What’s that island?’ I ask, pointing across the sea.
